


to show our feelings of appreciation

by arihime



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dedue Molinaro getting all the love he deserves, Dedue probably has some selft esteem issues in this, Fluff, Gen, but I think those are pretty much implied in canon?, if you think there are shippy hints in this you're probably right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22103518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arihime/pseuds/arihime
Summary: Dedue expects his former classmates to show some relief at his return, yes. What he does not expect is everything else.
Relationships: Dedue Molinaro & The Blue Lions
Comments: 26
Kudos: 131
Collections: Enabler's Gift Exchange





	to show our feelings of appreciation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blarfshnorgull](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfshnorgull/gifts).



> For Haley for our discord server’s secret santa. Thank you so much for always being willing to listen to my brain dumps no matter what the time. You have no idea how much I love/appreciate all our rambling conversations. <3
> 
> Prompt was “Dedue getting the love and appreciation he deserves.” I hope I did it justice!

_Do not ever throw your life away again. Understood?_

His Highness’ words swirl in Dedue’s mind as he follows the rest of the army off the Great Bridge Myrddin. More than the words themselves, it is the relief in His Highness’ eye and the vehemence with which he spoke that touched Dedue most of all. He spent years fighting to return to his prince’s side; he will not be torn away so easily, but to hear Dimitri say this, to make it a vow between them is— 

“Dedue!” 

The shout of his name is the only warning he gets before something—someone— collides with his back. Two someones, one on each side, small arms barely encircling his large frame. He catches a glimpse of grey and orange hair as Ashe and Annette bury their faces into his side, heedless of the hard edges of his armor.

“Dedue, you’re alive!” Annette cries, squeezing.

Ashe pulls back, and Dedue is alarmed to see tears in his eyes. “I—I knew it,” he sniffs. “I knew you weren’t really dead!”

Both their feet dangle a few inches in the air. Dedue crouches until they are back on the ground, but still, neither Annette nor Ashe loosen their grip.

“It’s alright,” Dedue tells them awkwardly, patting them both on the back. “I am here.”

That finally seems to mollify them. They pull back, Ashe scrubbing at his eyes.

“Where have you been? How did you find us?” Annette demands. “We thought you were dead!”

There had been moments when Dedue thought he was dead as well, but he will not share that pain with his friends now, in the face of their relief.

“It took me some time to recover from my injuries,” he says instead. “I apologize for missing the reunion.”

“Who care about that? You’re here now!” Ashe says.

Annette nods. “We’re really glad you’re here.”

She looks like she’s going to pull him into another hug. Ashe does as well. Both of them are stalled by the sound of Gilbert’s voice rising over the army.

“All troops, back to Garreg Mach!”

“I better go help Mercie with the injured,” Annette says. “She’s really glad to see you too, and I’m sure she’ll come and tell you herself when she’s not busy!”

“We should head out too,” Ashe says. He glances at Dedue and grins. “Come on. We can talk more on the ride back.”

It isn’t until they are by the makeshift paddock that Dedue realizes that Ashe meant “ride” in the literal sense. He eyes the horses wearily as Ashe goes to saddle his mare. For various reasons, he and horses (and pegasi and wyvern) have never gotten along, not to mention the fact that his size makes it difficult to find a horse than can even carry him. None of the horses look up to the task, and Dedue has resigned himself to walking when he hears a familiar voice call his name.

“Hey Dedue!”

He braces himself for another flying hug before he recognizes the smooth, teasing voice as Sylvain’s. There’s a wide grin on Sylvain’s face as he leads two horses out of the paddock.

Sylvain shifts both the reins into one hand and clasps Dedue on the shoulder warmly. “It’s good to see you man. You need a ride?”

Dedue eyes both of the horses. One is very obviously Sylvain’s stead, the Gautier crest sewn prominently into its livery. The other has to be the largest horse Dedue has ever seen. If not for the saddle already on its back, he would have mistaken it for a draft horse.

“I think this old boy can carry you no problem,” Sylvain says, patting the horse’s flank. “And don’t worry; he doesn’t bite.”

Dedue is dubious, but he lets Sylvain help him onto the horse. It barely flicks an ear as Dedue settle into the saddle and allows Dedue to lead it to the front of the line without complaint. The other soldiers part for him easily, until finally Dedue is at His Highness’ side.

How many years has Dedue longed for this moment? How many times has this exact imagine permeated his dreams? And yet, his dreams never accounted for how haggard His Highness looks, nor for the dark circles under his eyes. He will need to ask about them, later. For now, he simply basks in His Highness’ quiet presence, in the fact that the line of His Highness shoulders seems less rigid than it was before.

Dedue does not once lack for companions throughout the entire ride. There is His Highness, of course, and the professor by his side. Ashe and Annette, who take the time to fill him in on everything he missed in his months away. Sylvain to joke and tell him of the lewder side of things; Ingrid to censure him when he gets too far. Mercedes joins them when the wounded are more secure, and quietly asks Dedue of his injuries, his treatment, and insists on giving him a checkup herself during one of their breaks.

Her eyes are sad as she takes in the new scars across his body, though she has nothing but praises when he tells her of the Duscur healers who looked after him.

“I’ll have to thank them in person for bringing you back to us,” she says.

Even Felix joins them for a time, the scowl on his face somehow less severe as he guides his horse into place next to Dedue’s. Dedue glances at him, but Felix resolutely avoids him gaze as they continue along, and Dedue doesn’t press him.

They have ridden for an hour before Felix breaks the silence. 

“So, you weren’t dead after all.”

The words are plain, clipped. Nothing like the relief in the rest of his former classmate’s voices when they interact with him, but then, Dedue would expect nothing less from Felix.

“I am still alive, yes,” Dedue says.

Felix looks at him, gaze going up and down Dedue’s body. What he is looking for, Dedue does not know, but he seems to be satisfied given the curt nod of his head.

“Good. The boar doesn’t need any more people dying for him.”

Dedue scowls at the term. A retort springs to his lips on instinct, but Felix rides away before Dedue can say anything.

For all the company, Dedue is relieved beyond measure when they finally arrive back at the monastery. War has taken the grandeur out of the grounds, replaced it with a weariness that encompasses all who are enveloped in war. Still, Dedue cannot help the sense of familiarity he feels at riding through the gates and into the stables.

If Dedue is stiff when he swings himself out of the saddle, if he stumbles a bit once his feet hit the floor, then it can only be expected of someone who has not ridden a horses in years, and who was never very good at it to begin with. Only Ingrid is around to notice his stumble, and she is too polite to say anything, though she frowns at him for a long moment before holding her hand out.

“Let me take care of that,” she says.

Dedue blinks at her.

“Your horse. I can take care of him for you.”

“I am perfectly capable of—”

“I know that,” Ingrid says. “But well, you’re probably tired from being in that armor all the time. And I know you were guarding His Highness on the way back as well.”

She flexes her fingers towards the reins in his hands. “Let me take care of your horse so you can get some rest.”

Dedue blinks again. Truthfully, he has been feeling the weight of his armor during the journey back, and being on a horse, for all that it helped rest his feet, has done nothing for the growing ache in his back and shoulders.

He hands the reins to Ingrid, then says, “I do not truly know where I would go to rest.”

Ingrid gives him a surprised look. “Your old room should be clear. We’ve all be sleeping in ours since we’ve been here.”

“Yes, but it has been five years since anyone slept in it. I imagine it would need a good amount of cleaning before it would be hospitable again.”

“Go ahead and see it,” Ingrid says, a slight smile on her face. “I think you’ll be surprised.”

She leads both the horses away before Dedue can ask what exactly she meant. After a moment of watching her retreating back, he turns and walks in the direction of the student dorms. If his room is not in shape to sleep in, then he supposes he could simply take a pew in the chapel, or a pallet in the knight’s hall.

Despite Ingrid’s words, Dedue is not sure what to expect when he enters his old room. For it to be cleared out of all possession useful to the war save for a pallet, perhaps. What he does not expect is for everything to be in place, for it to be as pristine as the day he left it—perhaps more so. Dedue made sure to keep his room clean during his time as the officers academy, but the room he steps into is spotless. A fresh quilt is neatly folded on the bed, colors bold and new. Dedue crosses the space in quick strides and runs a hand over the material, feeling the softness beneath his fingers. The clean stitches and needlework are reminiscent of Mercedes’ skill, but the pattern on the quilt is one of Duscur, or at least a valiant attempt at it. Dedue blinks at it, wondering where Mercedes had learned. They had discussed much in their lesson on Duscur, but Dedue only remembers showing her such a pattern once. To think that she remembered it from so long ago, that she cared to recreate it as a gift for someone thought dead. . .

Dedue sits on the bed and reaches over to draw the quilt onto his lap, but his hands halt as something else catches his eye. Perched on the desk across from him are two Duscur roses in the first few stages of wilting. He is standing before he realizes it, barely catching himself before his fingers touch the delicate petals. 

He’d planted the seeds in the greenhouse once upon a time, after much coaxing from the professor and Ashe that the flowers would be a wonderful addition to the monastery’s garden. He’d check them each morning, watering and pruning, determined to see this little bit of his home blossom within the stale walls of the monastery. By the time the Empire’s forces had come crashing at the monastery’s gates, the flowers had been no more than buds.

Later, as he’d lay recovering from wounds that could have (should have) killed him, he’d wished he’d taken the buds, seeds, anything, instead of leaving the poor flowers to the same destruction that befell the monastery.

And yet here the roses are, cheerful and _alive_ , just as he is. And if these two are here, then perhaps. . .

He turns to the door before he stops himself. Night had already fallen on the world, cloaking the grounds and the greenhouse in darkness. Best to go in the morning to see the roses in their full glory. 

Besides, the whole point of coming to his room was to rest, was it not?

He pulls off his armor with a practiced ease and collapses into bed in his under tunic and pants. The bed has not grown since his academy days, and his feet lay perilously close to the edge. Still, he thinks as he draws the new quilt over his frame, he cannot help but find comfort in the familiarity of it all, and the memory of calmer days lulls him to sleep.

The morning greets Dedue with the sounds of the monastery coming alive around him, less than when he was a student but still enough to tug at something nostalgic in Dedue’s breast. On a whim, he turns to the wardrobe, at once surprised and not to find his uniform hanging there, as pristine as the day he left it. He leaves those memories where they hang, but decides to at least forgo the bulk of his armor for the day.

(After all, he has learned the hard way that armor and the greenhouse do not make a good combination.)

Dedue makes one detour on his way to the greenhouse: as the professor had warned him on the ride back, he finds His Highness in the cathedral, eyes trained on the space in front of him, head bowed. Dedue keeps him company for a few hours, only leaving when the professor comes for her customary rounds. As he leaves for the greenhouse, he makes a mental note to check the herbs for some chamomile for His Highness.

If the Duscur roses survived, then surely a more useful plant like that would still have a place in the greenhouse as well.

A wave of heat greets Dedue as he crosses the threshold of the greenhouse, so different from the Faerghus cold that it staggers him for a few moments. When he has adjusted, he takes stock of the plants around him. In the front is a patch of chamomile, lavender, and other medicinal herbs, sparse but otherwise well cared for. Beyond those lie carrots and other vegetables, with a few flower buds scattered here and there.

Beyond all of that, almost in a place of honor, are two bushes of Duscur roses, blooms bright and leaves green and shining. Habit makes Dedue carry a watering can and plant sheers over to them, but closer inspection reveals that there is little for him to do. The roses are happy and well cared for— _loved_ in a way that nothing else in the greenhouse is.

This time, Dedue can’t help himself. He runs his fingers down the smooth surface of the petals and leaves, feeling their health for himself. The roses seem to push up against him, caressing his skin as if to say, _We’re glad you’re back_.

Dedue waters them and clears the bed of the scant weeds that lie at their roots, then turns his attention to the rest of the plants in the garden. He does not know how long he spends weeding, watering, and pruning. Only that, when he finally looks up from his work, the light outside the greenhouse has gone from the bright yellow of midday to the soft, orange glow of evening. Footsteps echo through the quiet of the greenhouse, and he tenses on instinct before he recognizes the soft clatter of the professor’s heels.

“I hope we took good care of them,” she says, waving towards the roses.

Dedue stands, careful to shift his weight away from the flowers. “They are well,” he says. “I am surprised that they survived, after everything.”

The professor crosses the distance between them, squeezing passed Dedue to run gentle fingers over the orange petals.

“Ashe and I were surprised as well, when we found then.” She lifts her gaze up and up, until Dedue can see her wide green eyes peeking out from underneath her bangs. “In hindsight, we shouldn’t have been.”

The weight of her words hit Dedue a second later, and he frowns. His survival had been no more assured than the roses, and yet the professor is treating them as an omen. It took him five years to recover from the wounds he received saving His Highness, time spent warding off fevers and infections and mending broken bones. 

He imagines that the flowers’ journey to their current state was no less fraught.

“Still, they must have taken time to get back into shape.” Time and care that the rest of the garden did not get. “With the war going on, you and Ashe must have had better thing to do than to take care of flowers.”

The professor frowns. The look she gives him is one that he hasn’t seen since the early days of the academy, when he tried to warn her away from associating with a man of Duscur. Eyes narrow, a storm rumbling beneath the calm green.

“This was just as important as anything else we did for the war,” the professor says. “We thought. . . If you were truly gone, then at least we could have something of you—of Duscur—live on.”

( _Duscur may be gone,_ Mercedes had said once upon a time. _But you’re still here._ )

As suddenly as it came, the storm in the professor’s eyes clears, edges of her mouth curve up until she smiles at him, soft and delicate.

“I’m glad you’re alive, Dedue.”

She’d said the words to him before on the Great Bridge of Myrddin, breathless and almost giddy in the aftermath of battle. Now, they carry a quiet surety. A _safety_ that wraps around him and the flowers in equal measure.

“I. . . I am glad to be alive.”

The sound of footsteps forestalls any further comments. Dedue turns to see Sylvain entering the greenhouse, an easy smile on his lips.

“Now this brings back some memories. You and the professor in the greenhouse.” He gives a meaningful look at the space—or lack thereof—between them, and Dedue has to fight the instinctive urge to step away. It only lasts a second before Sylvain’s face softens, the easy smile morphing into something wide and true.

“Glad to see you here, man. This place wasn’t the same without you.” Sylvain says. “I’d hate to take you away from your work, but dinner is ready. Thought you might like to join us for a meal.”

Dedue is not overly hungry, but there is something in Sylvain’s words that make him step away from the flowers and follow him and the professor towards the dining hall. 

The smell hits Dedue when they are halfway up the steps: stewed meat and spices, rich and full and familiar. They are the smells he’d left behind in the Duscur village when he’d come to reunite with His Highness.

Dedue doesn’t realize he’s stopped on the steps until Sylvain clasps him on the shoulder, grinning broadly.

“Come on. I’m told it all tastes as good as it smells.”

_All_? 

Dedue breaths in again, mind parsing through the smells even as his feet carry him further up the stairs. There is more than just meat, he realizes, catching the sweet hit of vegetables and the warm, earthy smell of fresh bread. If not for the bevy of spices that ties everything together, he would thing it was just another meal in the dining hall. But during a time of war, for there to be so much food. . .

For it to all smell as it does. . .

Flayn greets them as they reach the entrance, grinning broadly at the sight of him. She grabs Dedue’s hand and tugs him along to the head of a long table.

“The food is ready for inspection, Chef Dedue!” Flayn cries.

She steps back to reveal a table overladen with stews and fried meat, sweet breads and roast vegetables and more. Every dish he remembers teaching Ashe and Mercedes how to make. Ashe himself hovers over the table, wringing his hands on a towel. When he catches Dedue’s gaze, he ducks his head, bashful.

“I hope everything tastes alright,” he says. “I followed the recipes you showed me—showed us—” he amends, with a quick look at Mercedes. She stands at the other end of the table beside Annette. “—but we didn’t have all of the spices, and well—”

“We hope you like it,” Mercedes says.

Dedue stares at the feast before him.

“You made all of this?”

“Mercedes and I did, yes,” Ashe says. “Flayn and Annette helped.”

“But really, Ashe and Mercie did most of the cooking!” Annette says quickly. “They’re our two best chefs, after all, and well. . . we wanted everything to be perfect.”

“I. . .” Dedue starts. “I do not understand.”

“You’re back!” Annette cheers. “And we wanted to celebrate, cause we’re all really, _really_ glad that you’re alive.” A sudden troubled look crosses her face.

“Unless you think it’s too much? Ashe wanted to stop at only a few dishes, but I thought we should have more to make sure we got your favorites, and we have the extra food now since supplies are coming in and—”

“Breath, Annie,” Mercedes says, tapping Annette on the shoulder.

Annette clamps her mouth shut.

Dedue looks over the food again, at the steaming stews and meats, and then up at his classmates—his _friends_ around him. Mercedes and Flayn, smiling. Ashe and Annette, frantically watching his reaction. Sylvain, grinning like a cat; Ingrid, looking between him and the food with a wide smile. The professor with her calm, pleased air.

Even Felix is here, hovering at the edge of the group but no less present. 

“Thank you, my friends.” The words come easily, stoked by the warmth growing inside him. Feed by the sigh of relief from Annette and the brilliant smiles from Flayn and Mercedes.

By the taste of the stew that Ashe serves him. The spices burst on his tongue, different from his mother’s cooking but no less rich.

“This is wonderful,” Dedue says.

Ashe blushes to the roots of his hair.

The others begin to bustle around them, taking seats along the table and pulling plates of food forward. Dedue lets the conversation that bubbles forth wash over him, basking in the joy and the gentle smiles of his friends. Conversation flows naturally, only stilling when the final member of their class joins them.

Dedue notices his presence a second before a hush falls over the table. He lowers his spoon and watches as His Highness makes his way across the dining hall and to Dedue’s side. Ashe and Flayn scramble to give him space, jumping up from their seats with cries of surprise. His Highness does not say a word, but Dedue can feel the tension leave Dimitri’s body as he lowers himself onto the bench next to Dedue.

“Hungry, Your Highness?” Sylvain asks, pushing a plate of stewed meat in His Highness’ direction.

Again, he says nothing, but after a glance at Dedue, he pulls the plate closer to him and starts eating.

It is impossible not to notice the surprise this elicits, the look of disbelief on Ingrid’s face and the not-so-slight widening of the professor’s eyes. Later, Dedue will investigate this further, but for now. . .

For now, Dedue turns back to his own food, hiding a grin beneath his hand as Sylvain uses the distraction to pluck a roll off of Ingrid’s plate. She yelps and lunges after him, nearly climbing over Felix to do so.

“There’s more food on the table, you know,” Felix grumbles.

“But that’s mine!”

Annette and Mercedes giggle, and even the professor smiles. Dedue pushes the breadbasket closer to Ashe’s searching hand, smiling as he presents the entire thing to Ingrid.

“Here! Mercedes made a lot, so pick whichever one you want!”

For now, surrounded by the warmth of his friends and the food of Duscur, he is home. 


End file.
